"Young man came from hunting, faint, tired, and weary…"

The boy shoves through the last tangle of branches, and stumbles into the light of the glowing campfire. The men around it are all on their feet, watching him carefully. Doubtless, they had heard him coming, and were immediately on guard. And rightly so. Who knows what dangerous animals or violent criminals linger in these woods? The thought makes the boy shudder, and he is intensely grateful to be out of the dark and unforgiving woods.

But as the dangers of the forest fade behind him, an uneasiness grows at the view before him. The boy couldn't say what he had been expecting as he stumbled toward the campfire in the distance, but it certainly wasn't the sight of a group of armed, towering, intimidating men. He looks around, and sees that one man is holding a bow, and has an arrow out of its quiver, ready to fire at a moment's notice. The others, at the very least, have their hands on the hilts of their swords, or have them half-drawn. Only one man looks unconcerned, and the boy's astonished gaze finally lands on him. He is standing there with an air of supreme nonchalance, hands on his hips but not touching his sheathed sword. His light eyes are studying the boy with an almost eerie intensity, but his lips are curved in a warm smile. And it's not the smile adults give to kids when they don't want them to be frightened. It's an actual smile, as if the boy stumbling into their campsite had been a pleasant surprise, rather than an irksome inconvenience. The boy takes all of this in slowly, because mostly, his mind is preoccupied with its frantic chanting of The King, The King. Oh, God. It's the King.

After another moment or two, the boy realizes he is still staring at them all with his jaw slack in a combination of shock and awe that he can't quiet put a name to. He can practically hear his mother berating him, and he blushes a furious red while dropping awkwardly to his knees in front of the grinning blond.

"My King," he breathes, head bowed and eyes fixed on his muddied boots.

"Hey, there," the King responds immediately, and a hand descends into the boy's line of vision; the King of Camelot is actually offering to help him up. "What's your name?" he asks him calmly. But the boy is so floored by this unexpected casualness that for a moment his own name escapes him. Is it improper to accept help from a king? he wonders, regarding the man's dirty, calloused palm. Or is it worse to deny his help? But then - Oh, no - he has taken too long to answer, and now the King is kneeling before him.

"You're not hurt, are you?" King Arthur asks.

"John," John blurts, remembering suddenly that he had been asked his name. The King's brow wrinkles in confusion, and behind him, one of the men laughs.

"Look how nervous he is," the man with the bow chuckles. "Can't even answer the questions straight." John is sure he has never been more embarrassed in his life, and he almost wishes he had run into a wild animal instead. But then he manages to meet the King's gaze, and although the man is laughing, it isn't mean or derogatory. It's simply a laugh; his eyes crinkle with it, just like John's older brother's. The sight gives John courage; Arthur is the King, but he is also a man.

"My name is John, my lord. And no, I'm not hurt. Thank you, sire." This all comes out in a rush as he finally accepts the King's outstretched hand, and the blond pulls him to his feet with such effortless strength that John feels his feet lift off the forest floor.

"Where did you come from, John?" asks one of the men - knights, John suddenly realizes. The boy's gaze sweeps up to the one who addressed him, a particularly frightening-looking knight with dark skin and an unfamiliar accent. The man studies him just as the King had, calculating and attentive.

"I was hunting with my father," John explains, glancing quickly up at them all. He notices that all of the knights are watching him like this - carefully. A couple of them continually turn to scan the surrounding darkness, and the one with the bow still has not put his arrow back. The King, however, has returned to his seat around the blazing fire. But the others remain standing, alert. They think I could be part of a trap, John understands. It made sense for them to be so careful, especially since they were with the King, but John still didn't understand King Arthur's blatant lack of caution.

"Hunting with your father?" the knight prompts him, and John snaps back to attention.

"Yes, sir," he says. "It's our first hunting trip in this area, and we got separated and-" John cuts off suddenly. A lump has formed in his throat as the shock of finding King Arthur and his knights fades in the light of his hopeless situation. "I got lost," he grinds out finally. He blinks back tears and hopes that no one notices. When he can meet the knight's eyes again, he thinks they've softened, although it could be his imagination. But the knight with the bow places his arrow back in his quiver, and a couple of the men take their places around the fire beside the king. It's as good as telling him We believe you.

But now that John's been reminded of his problem, he can't chase away the images of all the horrible things that could have happened to his father. What if he had simply disappeared, never to be seen again? His heart is pounding so loudly that the boy barely hears King Arthur call his name.

"Come here," the King says, gesturing to a spot on the floor beside him. It's not an order, John notes; in fact, he has yet to hear the King give a single command. And yet there is some strange sort of power that hangs around him, a quiet compulsion that meant he didn't need to give an order.

John sits beside the King and wonders if he's dreaming.

"See this fire?" King Arthur asks him, gesturing in front of them. John nods, and they all watch it for a minute - swirling smoke that melts into the night sky, red and orange sparks that meander away and then blink out into nothingness. "You found us because of this, didn't you?"

"Yes, my lord," John answers. He wouldn't soon forget the sheer relief that had coursed through his veins at the sight of the friendly warm glow in the distance.

"Well, there you have it," the King says with utter certainty. "Your father will come to it just like you did. And we'll be right here waiting for him."

John knows the mages have long since gone into hiding, but he can't help wondering whether King Arthur has some sort of magic. Because, despite everything, the warmth of hope ignites in John's chest, and he feels inexplicably calmer. Even as the night wears on, he worries less and laughs more, enthralled by the light-hearted banter and brotherhood between the king and his knights. They tell him stories of their exploits, and legends of Excalibur. The King unsheathes that very sword, and John swears the world stops in that instant. He traces shaking fingers along the etched runes in the blade, and shivers at the cold of the metal. It puts him in mind of light blue and ice and swirling winds. He thinks he knows why King Arthur is so nonchalant about his personal safety; he doubts whether any army could withstand the might of Excalibur.

And at the end of the night, when the flames are beginning to die down, there is rustling from the nearby trees. The King's grin says I told you so.